The Revenge of Rutger Verhoven
by Domon Kasshu
Summary: Can it be? The Nether Gundam wins a match?? Rutger Verhoven finds his first taste of victory, but is it what he expected? And what of Master Asia's offer?
1. Anger Leads to Hate, Hate Leads to Bad S...

**The Revenge of Rutger Verhoven**  
_Chapter One: Anger Leads to Hate, Hate Leads to Bad Sushi??_

    _Author's Note: A bizarre little story, in that it's the wacky humor that I started with Career Choices until the very end, primarily because I just can't write Master Asia as a comedic character. As things progress, it'll slip into insanity again... particularly when a certain Neo Italian pilot shows up. This will contain spoilers, particularly if you've just started watching, so be warned! I'd also like to hear some feedback on what everyone thinks so far... this was written at around 1:00 AM after I'd had little sleep the night before, so I'm iffy on its quality. =p_

    Okay, I admit it. I'm rethinking the whole "throw the Gundam Fight" thing.     The plan showed its first cracks when I fought Markirott from Neo Greece. Okay, that's not entirely accurate. The cracks formed the night before, when that gigantic bastard came out of his hotel with a girl on each arm. The man wears a toga, and he's got girls hanging off of him like that. I mean, he doesn't wear it to a toga party, because that would be cool in a John Belushi Animal House kinda way. He wears it everywhere.     Yes, everywhere. It goes beyond living his gimmick. He wears it to events for the fighters. He wears it to the beach. He wears it when he gets to the store. I can't imagine how he deals with stiff breezes, nor do I want to. But yeah, he comes out, in all of his toga'ed ridiculousness, with two girls. Not really my type; they were every bit the ditzy blonde stereotype. But when a shaved sasquatch in a toga can get the ditzy blondes and the only person around me is my old friend Colt .45, there's a problem.     Still, I held the course. I threw the match to his Zeus Gundam. I made a half hearted attempt to use a windmill attack me and Billy Jack came up with, called the Nether Typhoon. Basically, it looks really spectacular, but has all the attack power of a ten dollar desk fan. So, Zeus takes the Nether Gundam's head, and that should have been all. But no, Governor Mayor Chancellor High Lord Wong(huh huh... I said Wong) says we can repair our Gundams as often as we want. So I had to stay. Watched Domon Kasshu blow up toga boy.     F'in' Domon Kasshu.     So, me and Billy Jack were repairing the Nether Gundam all night, which prevented me yet again from going out and having fun. One of our big weapons systems, the Gekigan Flare, is out of commission, maybe for good. Everything else seems intact, though. We started rebuilding the stupid, ugly head. Not entirely unrelated, we also started drinking heavily.     "Damn this thing is ugly." Billy Jack had a way with words.     Maybe I should explain Billy Jack a little further. You know how Gundam Fighters have highly trained crews, with repair technicians and battle strategists and, I'm given to understand, in some cases gourmet chefs and massage therapists. Chibodee Crocket has four really cute girls working with him. And Domon Kasshu has Rain Mikamura, one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen.     ....f'in' Domon Kasshu.     Anyway, I've got Billy Jack. As you might guess, Billy Jack is not a beautiful woman. He could not, by any stretch of the imagination, be called an attractive man either. You know how they sometimes leave things outside to give them a weathered look? Billy Jack has a great weathered look going for him. In fact, he looks like they left him to weather in a shallow grave. He's creepy when you first meet him... gives off a real serial killer vibe. Can't be sure if that's the case or not. He was bailed out of a Neo American prison and became a citizen of Neo Holland. He's a mechanical genius, so he got the crew job. He also have a steel plate in his head and can spit tobacco ten yards. I'm not exactly thrilled to know either of those last two things.     But Billy Jack worked with words the way Michaelangelo worked with marble, Rembrandt with paints, or the Matador Gundam with new and different ways to lose. Unfortunately, his preferred medium was obsenities. I doubt Neo Hong Kong heard so many four letters words since the last Tarentino film festival. He summed up the Nether Gundam, upon first viewing it, with a Mona Lisa level work.     "The bleeping piece of bleep looks like the bleeping bleeps took a bleeping outhouse, put a bleeping fan on the front and put a bleeping robot inside." For the record, he didn't say bleep.     "You're not too far off," I conceeded.     Billy Jack had more to offer. "That'll strike fear into the hearts of the other bleeping nations... look! Our Gundam is made out of a crapper."     This eloquent and measured speech helped me to decide to let Billy Jack in on my plans to throw the Gundam Fight. After about five times of telling him and retelling him, I took a different tact and approached him when he was sober. Shocked at the simple brilliance, he offered to help me with my scheme. Thanks to Wong, though, we both started to regret our idea. We'd spent the last several hours staring at the ugly mobile suit, the crapper with a fan on the front. We thought of new lame attacks, and made a drinking game out of it. If we topped one another, we'd get to drink another beer. Looking back on it, our judging system was a little liberal... we ALWAYS topped one another's ideas... but it made the night pass easier.     I can't remember the time the idea came, but it was about twenty three Coronas into our binge. Billy Jack looked towards the Nether Gundam and a smile passed over his face. "You know, if it's damaged beyond repair, we can go home."     "Yeah, but there's always enough to fix."     I swore I saw a gleam in the old bastard's eye. "If we wire it with explosives, throughout the body, there won't be anything left."     I'm not sure if the beer made it sound like a good idea, or if the beer made me pause to reconsider it. Either way, we started putting the explosives in throughout the body, and all we needed was an excuse to use them. Simple, easy. I'd take a heavy attack, bail just as I detonated them, and that's it. No more Nether Gundam.     So, of course, I faced off against George de Sand. Of course, he faced me honorably, and dispatched Nether Gundam by removing its head with one saber swipe. As we pieced the Nether Gundam back together, one of the fight officials noticed the explosives planted throughout the Gundam.     Boy, did that cause an uproar. People were throwing accusations back and forth, George offered to declare the match a draw, and some poor bastard from Neo Albania was arrested on suspicion of fixing the fights. As it turned out, he was in on a scheme with the Jester Gundam, so I suppose justice was done. Only problem was, Billy Jack and, more importantly, me were both still stuck in Neo Hong Kong.     The next night, everything changed.     I left a bar in the downtown area, and everything seemed the same. Markirott had two different girls, Chibodee partied with his own girls, and I walked down the streets of Neo Hong Kong with a bottle in my hand and a lot of my mind. Boasting to my friends seemed a good excuse for signing onboard, but now I found myself a prisoner. If my plan to throw the fight was ever uncovered, I'd be disgraced and probably jailed. Thus far, I convinced my superiors that unfamiliarity with the system and old injuries accounted for my losses. Eventually, I could blame hangovers, but that would take away alcohol, the one joy I had in the city.     Lost in these thoughts, it took a few minutes for the sound to register. A faint clicking that slowly grew louder. I'd wandered far away from the downtown area, and into one of the bad parts of town. I worried at first it was a bandit. I'd even heard rumors of a Gundam Fighter who killed his future opponents, and wondered if I'd just drawn him. I stopped and looked around, and that's when I saw a horse. Yes, a horse, walking down the street, with a shadowed rider on its back.     "Rutger Verhoven." The voice sounded deep, full of authority. Mounted police, perhaps?     "Yes?"     "Neo Holland's fighter Hardly an impressive performance thus far."     "Y'know, that had somehow escaped my attention. What was the first hint, the record short times in match length, or..."     "Silence! I have come to speak with you on important matters, not listen to your self important drivel."     "And who the hell are you supposed to be?"     The horse stopped, and the man jumped off its back. "You might know me as the Unbeatable East... the former King of Hearts... but above all, the defending champion."     "Tohofuhai... Master Asia?"     "The same."     "Why have you come before me?"     "Because I have questions that must be asked from one fighter to another." He walked towards me slowly, and stopped mere feet away.     "Such as?"     The question came in the form of a quick kick, aimed squarely at my head. I raised one arm to block it, and the kick stopped against my forearm. Slowly, Master Asia lowered his leg and a smile crossed his face.     "If you can block that kick, Rutger Verhoven, you could have certainly made a better showing in your fights thus far."     I took another drink out of the bottle and rolled my eyes. "What is it to you?"     "As a fellow fighter and defending champion, it is my concern! You taint the honor of this fight by not trying with all your heart and soul. What kind of fighter are you?"     "I spent eleven months sitting in a field waiting for the start of the finals. I'm hardly a fighter."     I expected a quick strike for my insolence, or for the lecture to continue. Instead, he smiled again. "I sense great resentment towards those who have held you back, Rutger. You have no love for your country, and I can hardly blame you. But beneath that beats the heart of a warrior."     "Doesn't do me much good at this point."     "And if I could offer you an opportunity to become a true fighter, in a noble cause... would that interest you?"     I looked into the eyes of Tohofuhai... a true legend not just in terms of the Gundam Fight, and saw a sincerity there. I also found it a little difficult to believe that I was standing face to face with him. I poured the beer out of the bottle in my hand, and threw it aside.     "I'm listening." 


	2. You Lose Even If You Win

**The Revenge of Rutger Verhoven:**  
Chapter Two: You Lose Even If You Win

    You never forget your first time. The sudden rush of new experience, sensations completely foreign to your body, and a sense that, in some ways, you will never experience such pure and absolute pleasure. As I stared at the head of my opponent, resting in the Nether Gundam's arms, I felt just that.     A minute later, I spiked the Matador Gundam's head into the ground and started the best damn Bob and Weave I could manage with my bulky Mobile Fighter.     "Ladies and gentlemen, the Nether Gundam has won! The Nether Gundam has won! Are we recording this?" Damn, she didn't have to rub it in. But I swore things would change, with this first victory. I thought to my next opponent in the Gundam Fight, and the different looks I might receive at the bar. Sure, defeating the Matador Gundam proved as difficult as karate chopping through ten feet of wet toilet paper(single ply), but I no longer carried the label of loser. Future victories meant more prestige. That meant more free beer, banquet invitations, and maybe even some hot groupies. The clouds didn't part to a chorus os "Halleluyah", but that's about the only thing that didn't seem right about this moment.     Then, a harsh voice interrupted my dreams like a needle yanked off a record.     "What the bleep are you bleeping doing? You just bleeping won, you blankity bleep blank bleep bleep!" Billy Jack continued, borrowing swears from fifty different languages and inventing a few on the spot.     "Billy Jack, calm down."     "Calm down? You want me to bleeping calm down? The government cut our bleeping funding, meaning less bleeping beer money, and you want me to bleeping calm down? Bleep you, you bleeping bleep!"     I held my tongue. Much like one doesn't bleed around a shark or a man doesn't listen to Village People albums while his friends are around, I knew better than to argue with Billy Jack when alcohol entered the picture. Billy Jack proved a happy drunk, and a violent sober. The only thing that made him happy while sober was the opportunity to change his status at any time. I simply returned to the staging area for Neo Holland, a plethora of obsenities filling the Gundam's cockpit. It sounded rather like a fifty year old man trying to emulate Eminem, except that Billy Jack sounded more like an aged and angry Vanilla Ice.     After a brief stay at the staging area, I readied myself to meet the press. I put on my best suit and made certain not a single hair came out of place. This preperation took a good hour, and it proved an hour too long. As I left the fight complex, I saw a throng of reporters, and assumed they all wanted a picture of the soon to be famous dark horse candidate for Gundam Fight victory.     I waved.     The one reporter who noticed stifled a laugh.     An instant later, Argo Gulskii arrived, and a bevy of photographers surrounded him, flashbulbs going off, while reporters shouted questions all at once. From the white noise I heard a few fragments of the story. After a few minutes, I pieced it together. Neo Sweden's Mobile Fighter apparently defeated Argo in under a minute. Who was this Fighter, and why did Argo suffer so badly? I slapped my hand across my forehead.     I finally became a winner, and the press swarmed a loser.     Argo and the Russian officer who walked around with him entered a nearby limo. I wondered about Argo, and why he lost. A few seconds later, I wondered the officer's name, likes and dislikes, measurements and other questions not suitable for sharing. I considered space piracy as a viable option to pick up chicks when I saw the limo pull away, with a familiar figure driving the car. Of course, he'd be here, at yet another moment of failure.     F'n Domon Kasshu.     The press turned back towards me.     "Who's this guy?"     "Probably a fanboy."     "Let's go home."     I gave them a mature and dignified response, which was to say I offered a bevy of middle finger gestures, complete with a little dance to accompany it. I then took a deep breath, and remembered things were different now, no matter what. I had a place, and people who would accept me. I was a winner, and it was time to celebrate with winners. 

    "You promised me a PONY RIDE!!"     Michaelo Chariot and his brain apparently had a violent disagreement at one point, and were no longer on speaking terms. His Neros Gundam, in the hands of a decent fighter, might prove formidable. In the hands of Chariot, it tended to prance around like a ninny and issue weak kicks. Chariot himself stared across the room at Master Asia, his eyes wide and face in a scowl.     "Pony ride, indeed," Asia said, his arms folded across his chest. "I said no such thing. Fuunsaiki is hardly a pony, and he respects warriors alone."     I glanced back at Gentle Chapman. Of course, you all know Chapman. He won three fights, and proved an inspiration to any number of young fighters. I remembered a Gentle Chapman poster on my wall as a boy, and dreamed of watching him in action. Because of Gentle Chapman, I wanted to be a Gundam Fighter. My parents smiled when I said this, then enrolled me in ballet lessons before shoving me back into the cupboard underneath the stairs.     Drool escaped the corner of the legendary Chapman's mouth as he stared into his tea cup.     Yep, I'm a winner now.     "But you promised if I beat that Zeus Gundam, I could have a pony ride!"     "We seem to live in different realities, Mr. Chariot. I recall promising only not to beat you within an inch of your life if you won the match."     "Bring it on!"     In the old days of wrestling, they had something they liked to call "enhancement talent", guys who made the big stars look good. Well, Michaelo Chariot charged forward, and did a hell of a job of enhancing Master Asia's talent. I'd heard such howls of pain only once before, when an intern brought Billy Jack and I three cases of Milwaukee's Best for our evening's needs. A loud crash sounded the end of the challenge.     "When you regain use of your lower torso," Asia said, "I expect you'll patch the holes you've left."     "Okie dokie boss!" Chariot said, then fell into unconsciousness.     Chapman stared to the wall and blinked. He turned to his tea cup, and then stared at the spoon next to it. He tried to plunge the spoon into the tea, but only hit the edges of the cup itself. "My spoon is too big!" After a few minutes of this, his eyes crossed. "My spoon is... too big!"     Asia arched one eyebrow. "See what I live with?"     Chapman made eye contact with me. "Tuesday's coming, did you bring your coat?"     I jumped up from the table, and walked over to where Master Asia looked out over the city. He nodded at me, then gestured forward.     "See what the Gundam Fight has done to our city?"     "This... opportunity you mentioned... it can change all of this?"     "One can hope, Rutger. The world changes, and at times I feel stuck in the past, unable to accept that fact."     I nodded. I felt the same way in high school, when the grunge revival trend disappeared but my flannel didn't. I decided not to dwell on the routine beatings of my youth, and focused on the Master's words.     "Men such as Chariot become Fighters, governments use trickery to win Fights, the national gimmicks get more ridiculous every year. Have you seen the Mermaid Gundam, Rutger?"     "No."     "A male pilot, with a very male looking Gundam, but it's the Mermaid Gundam. Honestly, is there no pride left? If it doesn't look like a Mermaid, then don't call it a Mermaid. The Skull Gundam looks like a five year old built it, but at least it looks vaguely like a skull. No one's had a Dolphin Gundam or a Triton Gundam. For the love of the Fight, call it the Sardine Gundam before you call it something it's not!" He took in a deep breath, and in a moment, regained his composure as Undefeated of the East. "Forgive me, it's a sensitive issue."     "These are trying times for all of us," I replied.     " Look around me. I've thrown my lot in with a Mafia boss and a mere shell of a former champion, and this rises from necessity. I work with a man I hardly respect, all in the hopes that my dream might come true. You're far too young to remember, but the seas once shone blue, and the skies free of smog. I want to bring that bac--"     Before he could finish, a sudden fit of coughing seized him. He fell to one knee, and I ran to his side and helped him back to his feet.     "Are you alright?"     "Nothing I can't handle," he replied. "As for you, Rutger... why are you here? You should celebrate your first victory. Go... there's a huge city out there, brimming with opportunities. Who knows, this might be the night your dream comes true."     He pushed me toward the door. While I decided celebration suited my mood, I dwelled on Master Asia's moment of weakness a moment longer, and his dream of restoring the planet. I could only dream of such a high purpose, of even beginning to approach such a lofty ideal.     Before I thought about it too much, the words of Billy Jack echoed in my mind. "The best cure for deep thought is hard liquor." I decided he was right. 

    I hoped someone might notice my entrance. One person did, though it was the last person I wanted.     "The loser returns!" Markirott's voice boomed across the bar, as one of the tree trunks he called arms wrapped around one of his blonde consorts. Beer soaked into his beard, and he wiped one arm across his mouth. "Tell me, boy, did you pay old Carlos to lose today?"     My brain pulled a Michaelo, and I gave Markirott the finger. An instant later, the massive Neo Greek stared down at me. His eyes narrow, and thunderclaps sounded as he popped each of his massive knuckles. I wondered if I'd made the right choice by not filling out a will when I became a Gundam Fighter.     He lowered his face towards mine. The smell of stale pretzels and cheap beer proved as devastating as any attack he'd used in the Finals. "Do my eyes deceive me, or is the Hollander developing a spine?"     I weighed my options. He teetered, the effects of too much alcohol, and I guessed he'd had a few shares. His blows might be clumsy. On the other hand, his hands were bigger than my head, so he had a good margin for error. I almost backed down, when I saw her.     The girl sat alone at a nearby table. The entire bar focused on our confrontation, but I saw only her green eyes staring at me. Focused yet innocent in a way, they intrigued me, as did her pale green hair. The expression on her face seemed to ask me, "What are you going to do?" I looked back into Markirott's eyes.     "So?"     I turned my cheek to face him. "Take your best shot."     He swung, and I wondered how the papers might report the news of my removal from the Finals. Would there be a daily coma watch, counting the days I'd remained under, and the prognosis? Would they follow my physical therapy and attempts to regain my speech and motor skills? What would my parents think, if they pulled themselves away from Bingo long enough to hear the news? Most importantly, would this girl remain by my bedside, or just think me a stupid fool for inviting years of anguish?     Then I realized I'd had too much time to think. I stared at Markirott's fist, then at the hand that blocked the attack. An equally large bearded man, his eyes every bit as fierce as the Neo Greek's, stared him down.     "Back down, Markirott."     "Or what?"     The bearded man didn't miss a beat. "You might be big, but I have an axe. Want to see how well I use it?"     "You pity this fool, Graham?"     "I don't think Mr. Verhoven needs my pity," he replied. "I just dislike those who make judgement on others... and people who wear togas."     "We'll settle this in our match, Graham."     "Indeed we will."     Markirott stomped back to his chair and snatched a mug of beer from one of the girls and downed it. His eyes remained on me for a long while. The bearded man put one hand on my shoulder and shook his head. A slight smile crossed his face.     "It's either very brave or very stupid of you to stand up to Markirott like that," he said, and led me to the other side of the bar. "He's been especially bitter since his losing streak began. "You're the only one he's beaten so far, so he probably sees you as an easy target."     "Gee, thanks. I feel so much better now."     "I mean no offense." He glanced back at Markirott, then extended one hand to me. "Andrew Graham, Neo Canada."     "Rutger Verhoven, pilot of the Outhouse Gundam."     He chuckled as we approached a small table in the back of the bar. "You'll fit right in with our group, then." He pointed towards a man apparently cosplaying as a zebra. "This is Conta N'Doul, of Neo Kenya."     "Nice outfit."     He glared. "Don't start. The government demanded I wear this. Damn idiots."     I turned next to him, and immediately wanted to crawl into a hole.     "And this is--" Andrew began.     I finished for him. "Carlos Andalusia, of Neo Spain."     He nodded at me. "Nice dance you did with my head."     I grinned. "Sorry about that."     "Not a problem... I understand how nice it can be to get your first win." He gestured to a seat at the end of the table, which I took. "Besides, I hate what my country stuck me with."     "At least you can move your legs," Conta replied. "I tripped over that ridiculous skirt on my Fighter, and the Dragon Gundam took my head."     "Not like it would have mattered," Carlos shot back with a smile.     "Oh, be quiet."     "At least you guys got to fight in the qualifying round.," I offered. "I've been hiding in a field for eleven months."     "Face it," Carlos said, "We're all the rejects of these Finals, so let's enjoy it."     "Except for Graham over there," Conta added. "You've yet to lose in the Finals this year. They say you've got a real chance."     He remained silent a moment, then lifted his glass. "To the rejects."     "Here here!"     We all tapped our glasses against each other. I looked back across the bar, and saw the young woman looking my way again. After a moment, Andrew leaned towards me.     "Something catch your eye?"     "Someone."     He followed my gaze and saw Allenby. "Ah. Her."     "Who is she?"     "Only one way to find out, young Verhoven."     "I couldn't."     "You can."     "You think so?"     "If you don't, I'll give you a beating that will make you wish Markirott had gotten to you."     That was all the prodding I needed. I jumped up from my chair and walked across the bar. 

    **Next Time:** Will Rutger finally meet the girl of his dreams? Will we learn more about the mysterious and painful past of everyone's favorite Neo Holland fighter? What role does Wong play in all of this? Who is the Muffin Man? These answers and more, in the next exciting installment of The Revenge of Rutger Verhoven! 

    _AN: The trick to writing RoRV is sleep deprivation, lots of sugar and long work weekends that make everything seem ridiculous. This thing's starting to take on more of a life, with an actual PLOT developing whereas before I just had a collection of scenes. Is this over the top parody combined with a few serious moments working for everyone? Let me know what you think. _


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